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Poetry
There was a young Tiefling named Poetry Who'd shown great skill and gun mastery But the lords of the land Held wars cards in their hand And the sharpshooter couldn't just let things be History Birth '' It was on one cold winter night'' When the wind blew across the wild moor When Mary came wandering home with a childe Till she came to her own father's door "Father, dear father, " she cried "Come down and open the door Or the childe in my arms will perish and die From the cold winds that blow 'cross the wild moor." But her father was deaf to her cry Not a sound of a voice would he hear So the wild wolf did howl and the high-church bells tolled And the cold wind blew 'cross the wild moor Oh, how the old man must have felt When he came to the door the next morn' And he found Mary dead but the childe still alive Closely grasping its dead mother's arm. Childhood From childhood's hour I have not been As others were; I have not seen As others saw; I could not bring My passions from a common spring. From the same source I have not taken My sorrow; I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone; And all I loved, I loved alone. Then- in my childhood, in the dawn Of a most stormy life- was drawn '' ''From every depth of good and ill '' ''The mystery which binds me still: '' ''From the torrent, or the fountain, '' ''From the red cliff of the mountain, '' ''From the sun that round me rolled In its autumn tint of gold, From the lightning in the sky As it passed me flying by, From the thunder and the storm, And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a devil in my view. Adulthood The pockets of our greatcoats full of barley... No kitchens on the run, no striking camp... We moved quick and sudden in our own country. The priest lay behind ditches with the tramp. A people hardly marching... on the hike... We found new tactics happening each day: '' ''We'd cut through reins and rider with the pike And stampede cattle into infantry, '' ''Then retreat through hedges where cavalry must be thrown. Until... on Vinegar Hill... the final conclave. Terraced thousands died, shaking scythes at cannon. The hillside blushed, soaked in our broken wave. They buried us without shroud or coffin And in August... the barley grew up out of our grave. Service as a Gunfighter for Wrarthia Two hundred yards away he saw his head; He raised his rifle, took quick aim and shot him. Two hundred yards away the man dropped dead; With bright exulting eye he turned and said, ‘By Jove, I got him!’ And he was jubilant; had he not won The meed of praise his comrades haste to pay? He smiled; he could not see what he had done; The dead man lay two hundred yards away. He could not see the dead, reproachful eyes, The youthful face which Death had not defiled But had transfigured when he claimed his prize. Had he seen this perhaps he had not smiled. He could not see the woman as she wept To hear the news two hundred miles away, Or through his every dream she would have crept, And into all his thoughts by night and day. Appearance From the waist up, Poetry looks mostly human, albeit with larger hands, and piercing green eyes. His skin is barely tinged blue, his horns are barely ridges, easily hidden by his blonde hair, and Wrathian military winter cap. a long snake-like tail with a blade tip extends from his tailbone and scales with a light feather down the stretch from mid-thigh to his ankles. His feet are scaled monstrosities, with black, claw-like nails, and only three toes. When he laughs he shows a bit more of his heritage, with sharp fangs and a blood-red tongue that is slightly forked. His eyes contract to slits in bright light or when frightened. For clothing, he wears a long black trench coat, with leather and metal protective plating over a Wrathian military uniform, and metal boots. The grey-black clothing shows off his various achievements. A belt carries his pistol, while a shoulder strap holds his long rifle at the ready. Personality Poetry is lonely. Friends & Acquaintances Trent Dockson-Military Buddy. Served in the same unit for the last five years. Gave me a red crab shell to attach to my rifle stock. Ishiyama Family- a bunch of children running around. Still wet behind the ears, best to teach them how the world works fast and hard. Enemies Black Orcs Aspirations Poems Tiny dead crab of fire and slate Lost your way? Gone astray? Found your path to hell? Guide my shot with devils hate. Pierce their heart? Tear them apart? Yes my tiny angry little shell Category:Player Characters